Revenge by David Pilling Read Free Book Online

sternly, “along with all his kin. The Huntleys and the Ramages fought under Sir Thomas Malvern’s banner at Blore Heath, on the side of the Yorkists. In his mercy – though I would say weakness – the King has chosen to pardon all who raised arms against him, save their leaders. Our lord the Duke of Buckingham has stripped Sir Thomas of his office as justice of the peace, but that is all.”
    Richard drew strength from the fierce passion in her voice. “If I were King,” she went on, “the heads of all these traitors would decorate the gates of every English city from Carlisle to London. His Majesty may pardon who he will, but I shall not permit a traitor to marry into our family. I sent Huntley a letter informing him that he may seek a wife elsewhere. Then I sent to the Bastard Stafford, to tell him his way to my daughter was clear, if he still desired her.”
    Twin spots of colour appeared in Mary’s pale cheeks. “He came here and proposed marriage, in a very clumsy and forward manner,” she said, avoiding her brother’s amused gaze, “but he did it bravely, on bended knee. I am fond of him, which I was not of Huntley.”
    “Besides which, we are in dire need of friends,” added her mother. “Henry may be uncouth, but he is a fighting man and loyal to Lancaster. There are not many such men left in Staffordshire.”
    “While the rest of our neighbours are for York, and will now regard us with envy and hatred,” said Richard. He sighed, and tried to think through the dull pounding in his head. Perhaps he had not woken to such perfect happiness after all. “The Huntleys especially, since we have snubbed them.”
    His memory chose that moment to strike him a terrible blow, and blood surged to his head as he sat bolt upright. “What of father?” he cried. “Did he survive the battle?”
    His mother and sister exchanged pitying glances. “Your father is at peace,” Dame Anne said quietly. “When you are strong enough to leave your bed, you can visit his grave.”
    She grasped his hand tighter. “We rescued his sword and his harness from the battlefield. They are yours now, along with the land and estates. My son, everything is now in your charge.”
    “I don’t want it, any of it,” he said, fighting back tears, “I want father back.”
    “For days after the battle, I wearied God with my prayers,” his mother said with unusual gentleness, “pleading for my husband to be returned to me. He didn’t listen, and I was wrong to plead. This is how God tests us, Richard, through pain and loss. At least He allowed you to live.”
    Richard wiped his tears and lay silent for a moment, gathering his strength. “It is not ended,” he said eventually. “I see now that God has spared me for a purpose. Who killed my father?”
    Anne shook her head, but for once her will had to bow to a greater.
    “You charged me as my father’s heir,” he rasped. “Do you think that stops at property and rent-rolls? I inherit all or none, mother. Who killed him?”
    “It was Malvern,” she replied in a small voice, staring at the backs of her time-ravaged hands, “so Henry told us. Sir Thomas Malvern struck your father down at Blore Heath, with the Ramages and Huntleys to aid him.”
    Richard nodded slowly, savouring the names. “Malvern, Ramage and Huntley,” he said. “Royal pardon or no, they are marked men.”
     
    6.
     
    Westminster Palace, London, May 1460
     
    The King of England sat in a private chamber of his palace, gazing at an allegorical figure of Winter painted on the wall above the hood of the fireplace. Winter was in the form of an old man, wrapped shivering in a thin cloak against the blast of storms and cold winds. Henry empathised, though the storms he had to endure were of a different nature.
    “It is always winter in England,” he murmured to himself, “nothing but rain and cold and darkness. The crops rot in the field, a murrain strikes down our sheep and cattle, and the starving people